


Tangles and Roots

by AphroditesTummyRolls



Series: To Be Human [4]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Mission after Merricks, Fluff and Angst, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, I know that tag is scary haha it always gets my anxiety going but it's OKAY! I promise., M/M, Mild Gore, Nonverbal Communication, Nonverbal Nicky, Recovery, Temporary Character Death, it's in a dream it's not real
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:55:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28131252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AphroditesTummyRolls/pseuds/AphroditesTummyRolls
Summary: Back before his first death, in the monastery with the sheer mountainside on one side and the lapping Mediterranean waves on the other, silence wasn’t a mandate as much as a natural side effect of a contemplative life. Nicolo had lived his whole life barely ever hearing human voices that weren’t raised in prayer or murmured in confession. The quiet of his former life still swelled up in him from time to time, sealing his mouth shut and leaving his mind to do the talking.Joe still liked to say that it was God telling Nicky when he’d bottled up more than he could hold. Neither of them believed too much anymore, but it still felt good to say it every once in a while. If anything, where God had once anchored his thoughts, his Yusuf stood in His place. He was a solid presence, something to cling to while he was lashed against the rocks in his mind. There was so much to pick over, so much that it overwhelmed all emotions until it was nothing but a roiling vat in his gut.
Relationships: Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Nicky | Nicolo di Genova, Booker/Accountability, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Nile Freeman & Nicky | Nicolo di Genoa, all the crew are being cute and having some nice dynamics, except the Booker stuff, that's all flashbacks
Series: To Be Human [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1887949
Comments: 25
Kudos: 107





	Tangles and Roots

**Author's Note:**

> Hi hi hi! 
> 
> Okay. So, a few things:
> 
> 1) The beginning of this story has Joe dying pretty gruesomely??? Like, I describe it a lot-- the idea of them dying without each other is one of my biggest sources of anxiety in this fandom, so I'm giving y'all a warning. I would never do that to them permanently, it scares the HELL out of me. But it also scares the Hell out of THEM, making it the perfect nightmare material. 
> 
> 2) I'm back on my bullshit, being mean to Booker. The beginning dream paints him in a really really bad light, but it is purposefully out of character, and will be expanded on in the 2nd chapter. So, please don't get mad at me haha it's intentional. 
> 
> 3) Nonverbal!Nicky is one of my favorite headcanons for the character. I love it, and it fits my characterization for him PERFECTLY. There's a bit of historical reference to the last time Nicky was traumatized into muteness, and this is a warning: It was the dawn of the nuclear age. The bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. It's been something I wanted to explore nicky's (and the guard's) perspective of since I saw the picture on Copley's board that placed Nicky in the Pacific Theatre. I do my best to deal with it respectfully, and it's pretty brief. I just want don't want anyone to be blindsided by that. 
> 
> Okay. Those are just a few things that I want to be clear about. <3 I'm really proud of this story, and I hope you love it. Please please please, if you like it, shoot me a comment! I love hearing from you folks!

_He was covering Andy._

_The hangar was dark, shadowed by the last of the night while dawn crept up over the skyline outside. The plane was set to land any minute now, and Nicky’s eyes flicked from corner to corner, finger on the trigger of his gun and his jaw grinding hard. He could swear he saw shapes moving along the roof— the banks of high windows above them left eerie patches of weak blue light, flickering with little flashes of darkness._

_It was probably just birds. He was out of practice— they had done nothing but sit around in the six months since Merrick, trying to heal the deep wounds left in their minds… and bodies, in Andy’s case._

_Nicky swallowed, stepping that much closer to his friend’s side as they took their places in the shadows._

_They had left the bodies of the guards where they laid— strewn out by the door, across the floor by the phone. Nicky caught a glimpse of movement, fluid and sure, as Joe silently cut down a uniformed man by the hangar entrance. Nile and Booker took the other, the slick sound of blood bubbling in someone’s throat being the only sound in the quiet as they lowered him to the ground._

_There were airplane engines coming closer. Nicky was gripping his gun, his sword swaying in its sheath comfortingly along his thigh. His palms were sweating, a knot of dread and anticipation curling itself tight in his gut, sinking like a cold stone. His blood felt too hot in his veins, a distracting sensation juxtaposed with the clammy coldness of his skin. The hangar was concrete and galvanized steel— the chilly fall air in New York bit too hard for him, and Nicky shivered. He wished more than anything to call out now. To pull Andy to the side and say that something was wrong, that the mission needed to be aborted, that they needed to run right now—_

_The sound of a plane touching down rattled the walls, right down to Nicky’s bones. He looked around to his little family, all in perfect position— Booker with that vein jumping in his temple the way it did when he was concentrating, Nile with the determined look of the young. And Joe… Joe was by the yawn of the hangar entrance, his gaze glittering in the lights of the taxiing plane, watching with a single-minded intensity. He was thinking about it too, Nicky could tell. The lab, the torture, the_ tests… _He was setting his sights on the woman disembarking that plane and the climate-controlled case under her arm._

_Kozak had managed to escape with more of their samples than Copley had thought._

_Nicky pushed down the rising tide of words, even as the call to abort was on the tip of his tongue— this mission was too important. This kill was too personal. If they didn’t do it now, who knew when or if they’d get another chance._

_It was a good plan. It was a good plan, he told himself— Nicky covered Andy, the two of them together watching out for any other guards, acting as support for the others. Nile and Booker were meant to cover Joe in the surprise attack. They were to take out any and all hostiles around Kozak, while Joe took her down and got the case of samples._

_They were one swipe of a scimitar away from finally being done with this. It was a good plan, left in his love’s capable hands— Nicky swallowed his reservations, and felt the reassuring weight of his gun. He let himself sink into the headspace he needed, feeding off the Boss’s crackling fire of energy, practically gnashing her teeth as Kozak and her posse approached the hangar._

_The sunrise was blood red, lighting up the skyline behind them. Nicky’s pulse pounded in his ears as he heard the click of footsteps echo into the hangar— one, two, three._

_And everything went into motion._

_Booker and Nile led the charge, slipping out from the shadows with weapons ready. Nicky could hear the squeal of tires and knew they’d soon have more company coming from behind, calculating that into the rush of adrenaline as he and Andy were swept into the fight. Between the four of them, it was their job to clear the way for Joe— make a path to Kozak and the samples._

_Nicky couldn’t bear to look at her for longer than a second, didn’t have the time with the men coming at him and Andy from all angles— there were too many, more of them than made sense, unless…_

_Unless they knew they were coming._

_The swing of metal and the echo of gunshots all seemed to go in slow motion, his heart rate speeding up and mutating in his ears. It was mechanical, high-pitched and beeping as he whirled around to face the action. Joe had his scimitar clutched in his hand, racing to Kozak, who simply looked right past him— right over Joe’s shoulder, past Nicky and into the red sunlight of the hangar, where Booker and Nile were starting in on the reinforcements—_

_Nicky turned his head too slow to catch the way Booker met her cold gaze. He wasn’t even fast enough to catch the bullet that cracked through the air, right by Nicky’s ear, and lodged itself between Joe’s shoulder blades. Or the second one, blowing through his left side, or the third as Booker fired again and again._

_His scream was choked by shock, the concrete floor seeming to give way beneath him and leaving his knees to buckle in time with Joe’s. He watched, deaf to everything but the mechanical racing of his heart monitor, struck dumb by the way Joe crumbled to the ground. Nicky couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe— he couldn’t even bring himself to follow Booker as he breezed past him. There were no words to ask— what the fuck are you doing? What have you done? Why?_

_Nicky just crumbled to his knees, breathless as he dragged himself to Joe. To Joe’s body._

_He was still lifeless, still not moving— nothing was moving, not Kozak, Andy and Nile, or the men around them. But_ Joe. _He was still not moving. Joe was_ still dead. 

_With trembling hands, Nicky pressed his fingers to where blood pumped out of him. It was hot and slick and absolutely the worst thing Nicky had ever seen. He pressed his hands to his love’s back, dark red blood gushing out over his hands and between his fingers. Breathing felt unnatural while Joe didn’t breathe with him, and the air was unwillingly sucked into his lungs in stuttering gasps. He could hear his heart monitor speeding up in his mind, heard something about the Nobel prize, something about changing the world. He couldn’t quite make it out, but he wasn’t trying. Finally, he found the strength to lift his Yusuf and rest him where he could look at his face._

_He cradled his slack cheeks in his bloodied hands, breath coming fast and hard, waiting for his shocked, frozen eyes to blink back to life, to be warm again. Nicky felt gutted— like he was back on that cold table with Kozak’s hands cracking past his sternum, his ribs peeled back and heart exposed. The agony of that, of his body trying to heal while she kept him held open, was nothing compared to how much he wanted to never heal again right now. His breaths came in shallow gasps, and Yusuf’s handsome face stayed cold and still. His shirt was drenched with blood and pocked with ragged exit wounds where Booker’s bullets had ripped through him— the concrete floor around them was slick and dark in the early morning sunlight, and there was_ so much. _There was so much, that the blood pumping out of Yusuf’s wounds had slowed to a trickle._

_He wasn’t waking up._

_It wasn’t until then that Nicky finally heard something real. He didn’t feel the scream as it punched through his throat, but it echoed off the walls and back to him. It was primal, deep. A howl split the air, and Nicky was beyond all reason, gripping at his love’s body impossibly tighter, clutching him to his chest, his eyes unseeing as the world began to move around him again._

_He was nothing more than an overwrought shell, unable to process anything but the ever-collapsing feeling of his grief. Still though, he knew what was happening around him— he knew that Nile let out a pained cry when her adversary plunged a syringe into her neck, and that Andy was shouting vitriol at Booker through the first three bursts of the taser into her spine._

_He knew, and he was rendered entirely helpless. He screamed like he was dying, both entirely empty and full of jagged shards._

_He knew someone was coming up behind him. He knew it was Booker, and he knew that there was nothing in his pathetic face but the twist of bitter hatred— something he’d never seen before. Something Nicky must have missed._

_His hands were rough as they tugged under Nicky’s arms, trying to shake Joe’s limp body out of his lap. He was being pulled away, back to the van, back to the lab, back to_ life without Joe— _a thing he barely even remembered…_

_“What would you know of all these years alone?” Booker said, like an accusation. Like it justified stabbing that needle into Nicky’s neck and sealing his fate, sealing all of their fates—_

_“Nico! Nicolo,_ wake up!” 

His throat hurt. 

“Nico, _please!”_

He was still shaking, eyes squeezed shut, and there were hands on him. They were familiar hands, with perpetual pencil calluses that stroked against the skin of his hip. He focused on that. Shuddering breaths puffed out of his lungs, slower and calmer, and he scrabbled for purchase on that hand, pulling it tight to his chest and running his fingertips over the tiny patterns of his rings. 

Only when he was absolutely certain that it really was Joe did Nicky dare open his eyes to face reality. 

He had ended up on his back, trembling through the aftershocks of his dream with Joe pressed to his side. His Yusuf was studying him carefully with his warm, wise gaze— his eyes glimmered, concern creasing his forehead, and the relief would’ve taken Nicky to his knees if he weren’t already laying down. 

He lifted a hand tentatively, stroking the line of his love’s beard. He felt his warm skin under the curls, took in every inch of his beautiful face, and he felt like _weeping._

Instead, only dry hiccups of sound shook his chest as he came to terms with the reality of waking up in bed, cuddled away with Joe like he had been for millennia. It had all been a dream— it had all been the most terrible, vivid nightmare. It was worse than any that he’d had since the Merrick incident. 

He finally managed to suck in a long, deep breath, pulling Joe down onto his chest. His heartbeat thumped with a strong, steady rhythm right in time with Nicky’s. He inhaled the smell of sleep, detergent and sandalwood— _Joe,_ in the early morning, alive and perfect and pressing his weight reassuringly down on him. There was no blood slicking the nonexistent space between them, no one to pull him away from Joe’s side. 

No one would dare. Nicky would kill the next person who tried. 

“I’m here, Babe, I’m not going anywhere. I was so worried about you...” He murmured into his neck, nuzzling his nose into the space behind his ear and kissing the skin there before he pulled back to look at him. “You were _wailing_ in your sleep, wouldn’t wake up, but you kept calling for me. Where did you go?” 

Nicky opened his mouth, feeling heavy and addled, his brain barely able to parse through the dozens of languages crying out in his head. His throat still hurt— from the screaming, no doubt. There was no air in his lungs, still. 

There were no words in any language that could describe it all. The dream, the mission, the betrayal… it all crashed over his hollow bones in wave after wave, and as he looked up into his love’s eyes, all he could do was click his mouth shut, and shake his head. 

It had been a while since these feelings were so encapsulating that he couldn’t speak, but Joe understood. 

“That bad, huh? I'm so sorry, _ya Amar.”_ A little of the light in his eyes dimmed, and his lips pursed incrementally. Worry. He was worried, and it squeezed Nicky’s heart. 

His hands finally steady, he reached up and pressed his thumb to Joe’s forehead, massaging out the crease of his frown with gentle pressure. That, at least, made him smile. That made him lean down and press his lips to the corner of Nicky’s mouth, “It’s okay. You can tell me about it whenever you’re ready.” he whispered. 

Tenderly, he pressed his forehead to his temple before pulling up and away. 

The weight of Joe was gone from him then, and he watched intently as he sat up against the headboard beside him. He assured himself again and again, in whatever language rose to the top of his mind, that he was _here._ That he was _alive._

He blinked hard, trying to shake the image lurking just behind his eyes— the empty, glazed eyes, the slack mouth, bloody lips and the gushing wounds that _wouldn’t stop—_

Nicky practically launched himself up to sitting, a pathetic wheeze of panicked sound bubbling up his throat. There was some type of quiet shush from Joe, something meant to help, but it didn’t. Nothing helped, not until he was staring his Yusuf in the face, those bright eyes, those soft, clean clothes over his perfectly intact chest. He was straddling his knees, hands outstretched and petting over the cotton before he could force himself to rationalize. 

Joe was all in one piece. There wasn’t so much as a bandaid under that t-shirt, he knew it. A long exhale that he hadn’t known he was holding exploded past his lips on a ragged sob. Hands gently squeezed his hips, and he could see and _feel_ the way Joe’s shoulders drooped, a quiet _oh_ spilling past his lips— like something suddenly made sense. 

“I came back, Nico. Destiny has twined us together for too long. I’ll always come back to you.” He cradled his hand, pressing it over his heart. He felt the heat, the thump under his palm, and things started to come back to him. Reality seemed to reset, the fog of the dream clearing in tiny increments from his mind. 

Nicky fisted his hands in the hem of Joe’s t-shirt, and approached the facts. 

There _had_ been a mission— coming back stateside, the hangar outside the city, Kozak and the samples, Joe getting shot to death— that had all been real. Booker hadn’t been there. 

They had gotten the samples, they had killed Kozak, they fled upstate from the hangar just as the sun was rising. Copley had met them at a worn old house in the Catskills. It had been his grandmother’s. It had plenty of bedrooms, hot water in the showers, a big kitchen that Copley had made sure was stocked. There were miles of woods in all directions, and no one to bother them while they laid low. The bits of their flesh, organs and bone that that woman had painstakingly extracted from them had been reduced to ashes in the firepit outside. 

“I had a feeling last night would be hard for at least one of us.” Joe finally said, nudging his way into the silence, “Honestly, I was most worried you wouldn’t sleep at all, and I would be the one screaming the house down in the morning.” He said it with one of his tender little smiles— the one he’d been fixing on Nicky for the past six months. The unspoken _I’m here for you, I know you’re holding back, please talk to me,_ was loud and clear, just like it had been for the past six months. 

Maybe he had been brushing a few things aside. He might’ve been distracting himself from the worst of his complicated feelings, and it was possible that he hadn’t been too sneaky about it. He had been dedicated to Joe, to Joe’s feelings and horrible dreams and moments of panic. It felt right to shift his focus, to kiss away his love’s tears and stand sentinel for him on the worst nights. He figured that it was a win-win, that helping Joe helped him— and he was right, it did. But it wouldn’t help everything. He had hardly noticed the extent of what he’d buried. 

Not until now, when it felt like every door of every compartment of his well-ordered mind had been flung open. 

Had he really been _screaming the house down?_ It was hard to believe, with his jaw wound so tight and his tongue so heavy in his mouth. But, his throat was definitely raw enough. 

Joe was carefully extricating him from his grip on his shirt, instead tangling their fingers and bringing his knuckles to his lips. 

“When I saw her again, I was surprised how much it all still affected me— her dispassionate gaze, her smug face, the way she’d held us down and _used_ us… I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me, but I thought I was more healed. I locked eyes with her, and I was on that table again, strapped down just to watch you… what they did to us.” 

His voice got quiet and broken toward the end, and Nicky’s heart squeezed in his chest. He cupped his cheek and wished he could make his mouth say _it wasn’t your fault. I’m only glad they had me go first, that Nile came for us before the worst of it came down to you._

But, even if he could, it wouldn’t help. 

“I thought that maybe after she was dead, I would feel better. But that wasn’t what did it.” He leaned into Nicky’s palm, his eyelashes fluttering. The freckles on his cheeks were already starting to fade with the chill of the coming winter, the climate of the northeastern states more suited to the indoors. He ached for Malta for a moment, but it wasn’t about Malta— it was about the peace in his love’s eyes when those freckles came out. 

He wanted to make the pain there go away again. 

“What did it was watching those samples go up in flames, and knowing that every part of us that she had touched was gone.” He sighed and smiled, opening his eyes again to study Nicky’s face. “It was a weight off my heart I hadn’t known was still there. The weight on your heart only just made itself known, didn’t it?” 

Nicky nodded, something desperate dislodging itself in the back of his throat that sounded like a whimper. Joe knew, his love _understood._

Joe nodded back, wrapping his arms around the small of Nicky’s back to pull him into his chest. He pressed his nose into the warm skin of his neck, smelling leftover shea and bonfire smoke in his hair. There was a hand on his hip, grounding him to this reality while the other stroked up and down the notches of his spine. 

“Are you comfortable coming out today? The others are pretty worried, but I can explain and bring us a little breakfast in here. I’m sure Copley’s too scared of us to say whether or not he cares if we get crumbs in the bed.” 

Nicky huffed with silent laughter, smiling against the crook of Joe’s shoulder before pulling back to take in his grin. 

It was sparkling, so much he almost could’ve told him so, but a kiss sufficed where words failed. 

“Up, then.” Joe tapped his hip to urge him off his lap, “Better get to the coffee maker before the American gets her hands on it.” 

Both of them left the chilly bedroom with smiles on their faces— even if Nicky’s was small. Seeing Joe’s back left a cold lump in his gut. Booker had shot him right there, and there, and _there—_

But it wasn’t real. Booker hadn’t been there. He hadn’t shot Joe in the back… not literally, at least. 

The smile was completely gone, replaced with a guarded blankness by the time they turned down the hall and into the kitchen. 

The tension was thick as a hospital waiting room, with three of them milling about the kitchen as if there was anything they were supposed to be doing. Nicky would’ve rolled his eyes if it wasn’t so humiliating. He could almost picture the scene: him, screaming his lungs out in the throes of his nightmare while Joe begged him to wake. There were thunderous footsteps on the stairs, thinking they were being attacked— Andy erupting through the door with her labrys in hand, Nile and Copley both gripping their guns, only to see Nicky. Nicky and Joe, in a state of absolute delirium. 

In a strange way, part of him still expected to see Booker in that kitchen. As if nothing had happened— it made sense. If there was a mission, Booker was there. He was part of the team, the four of them fought like one person. 

But Booker didn’t deserve to be there. If Booker was there, Nicky would be constantly on edge, and _Joe?_ If they hadn’t done what they did, Joe would’ve never recovered from Merrick’s at all. 

They weren’t a team anymore. So, he held Joe’s hand as they met the three— not four— people in the kitchen. 

It was earlier in the day than Andy would usually be awake, but she was there, hunched over the table like she had after her worst hangovers. Nicky felt his lips flicker in some mix of fond embarrassment when he saw that her labrys was leaned against the wall behind her. She looked up to see them, though, and she smiled. 

_“Finally—_ we can get some decent coffee around here.” She said, getting a chuckle out of Joe, “I’ve been guarding the machine for you— Copley was gonna try to make coffee, can you believe that?” 

“Well, we’re just in time.” 

Copley rolled his eyes despite his wry smile, “Yes, yes, make fun of the Brit— I am also American, though.” 

“That means nothing for your coffee skills.” Andy shook her head. 

“In fact, that makes it worse.” Joe cut in with false cheer. He winked at Nile, who’s smile was even smaller than Nicky’s. She huffed a labored laugh, though, and rolled her eyes. He could feel the effort all of it was taking. 

They were _trying_ so hard. 

Andy snorted, and Joe went off to fix a pot, leaving Nicky to stand in the doorway as if he didn’t know that they were all awake because of him. That they were watching him out of the corner of their eyes. 

Well, not Andy. Andy was at least looking straight at him, her tired eyes going soft in a way that probably meant he looked like shit. Nile was freshly showered, seated on the kitchen counter with her legs dangling, inspecting her bagel with shmear like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. Copley was setting out mugs and plates, wincing every time they clattered together, shattering the quiet. But Andy just beckoned Nicky over with her finger, and patted the seat next to her. 

He forced himself to take step after step, listening to the thin slats of hardwood squeaking under his feet as he came to drop himself down beside her. 

“It’s a good thing the closest neighbor is 10 miles down the mountain.” She joked, but there was no heat behind it. “You look like Hell.” 

He smirked, leaning into her hand when she pushed her fingers into his hair. 

The smell of fresh coffee filled the air, the tension of unanswered questions and worry hanging around them while the machine started percolating. Joe put a bagel in front of him— sesame seeds, toasted just enough to get brown, with thick shmear. He wished his stomach would stop churning over on itself. He wished everyone would stop _staring._

He took a deep breath and smiled his gratitude up at his Yusuf, finding the willpower to nibble at his bagel. 

Nile was the one to finally address the elephant in the room. 

“Nicky, are you okay?” 

It was painfully earnest, her eyes perfect circles of concern and barely disguised fear. She pushed herself down from the counter and sat herself across from him. Her hand flexed as if she wanted to take his where it laid on the table. 

She didn’t, though. So, he did. Nicky took her hand in his and squeezed in a way that he’d reassured her with in the past. He wasn’t sure if it would work now— he didn’t know what he’d sounded like that morning. But everyone looked scared. Andy was being so gentle. Joe had said he was _wailing_ and that he wouldn’t wake up. 

So, he didn’t begrudge Nile the skepticism in the twist of her mouth when he tried to say he was fine _without saying anything._ She’d never seen him like this before, and he was sure it would hardly help. 

“He’s okay, Nile. Seeing Kozak again brought some pretty nasty things back for both of us. I’ve had my share of nightmares over the past six months.” Joe stepped in for him, setting his coffee down in front of him just the way he liked it. He was smiling kindly, but the tightness in his voice made Andy turn and look. 

She knew them too well to not know something was different. 

“Joe.” She said, an unspoken command passing between them, right over Nicky's head. He didn’t bother to look up or acknowledge them, preferring to stick his nose into his mug. He knew Joe’s eyes had said all that needed to be said once Andy’s shoulders drooped, and he felt her gaze back on him. _“Nicky.”_ Her voice came out on a sigh. 

“What?” Nile cut in, trying not to show her exasperation. It was always hard to be the new kid, let alone when everyone else had known each other for a thousand years. 

“Sometimes, Nicky can’t talk.” Andy explained. “It doesn’t happen a lot, but when something big happens, he’ll just… stop.” 

Joe sipped his own coffee, leaning his hip into Nicky’s chair, “Not for too long. Last time it lasted maybe two weeks?” 

“Two _weeks?”_ Copley and Nile spoke up in unison. 

Copley had been lurking in the back, and Nicky wished he would leave, but he _couldn’t._ Not only because of his current situation, but because they were in the man’s _house._ Nicky had woken him up with the scare of his life, and whether or not Copley deserved his rest was a moot point. If he was going to be around, he’d have to know anyway. 

Joe nodded, “Don’t suppose you have a pad and pen around here?” He asked, and Copley lurched into action. 

Nicky smiled into his mug as he hurried away into the hall. He pressed himself into his love’s warmth in silent thanks, and knew Joe got it. 

Nile was watching them all, clever gaze darting back and forth. 

“So, how long ago was the last time?” 

It seemed like a lifetime ago. He heard Andy answer on his behalf as if she was on the other end of a long tunnel, _“About 80 years.”_ It felt like a lifetime, and he supposed it was. 

Nile nodded, absorbing, “I thought it would be, like, the 1700s or the Civil War, or something. Something older. What happened?” 

_Hiroshima and Nagasaki._ He could feel the words on his lips, but it all seemed to just weigh him down further. He had been honorably discharged just weeks earlier, and gone to meet up with Joe and the others in France. He was running a medic tent, when the news was in the papers. 

It was supposed to be a just war— now, he considered himself naïve for believing such a thing could exist, but everyone else had seemed so certain of their side. Nicky felt compelled by what they were fighting for… 

But not after those bombs were dropped. He didn't feel compelled by _any_ fighting after that. The wreckage— just in the photos— had been unlike anything he’d ever seen. The whole population was simply _gone,_ no bodies to even bury. It invalidated the fight, it felt like Jerusalem all over again. Innocent civilians were slaughtered, entire cities wiped off the map. 

He went to confession. He confessed and was simply _thanked for his service._ He hadn’t been since. 

After that, there was nothing more to say. He couldn't find a single word in his brain that wasn't as old as the Eastern Wall and incomprehensible to modern people. Even Joe and Andy, and Booker, he couldn’t find the words to talk to. He had to _think…_ and he mourned the pre-nuclear world for two weeks. 

“The end of the Second World War.” was all Joe said, just as Copley returned with a legal pad. 

Nile was still watching him. She looked like she wanted to press further, her brow furrowed and her eyes shrewd. He surreptitiously let out a relieved exhale when she didn’t. 

“Are you gonna write down your dream?” She asked, “It might help to get it out on paper.” 

The question blindsided him. Usually, he just used the pad to write down anything he couldn’t cover with basic hand gestures and nodding. He and Joe rarely needed it, but it was better to have it than not… He hadn’t even considered writing down his dream. He glanced from Nile, to the faded yellow paper, and back again. 

He didn’t want to. The memory of the dream was too much to bear— the way Joe’s blood had gushed under his hand, the vitriol in Booker’s voice as he taunted him, stabbing that needle into his neck— 

He clutched the pencil with a clammy grip, swallowing against the rising tide of anxiety as he spelled out the words.

_Thank you, Nile. I’ll consider the idea._

It was a lie. 

_I’m sorry I scared you._

That couldn’t have been more sincere. It ached in his chest to see her eyeing him so warily as he walked into the kitchen. Throughout all their time in Provence, and the long, sun-soaked weeks in Valletta— all throughout the recovery, and their bonding as a team, she’d never seen him like he had been that morning. She definitely had never seen him like he was now. 

He wasn’t known to be chatty, but he and Nile could sit and talk for hours. She had so many questions. They were big, beautiful questions— about life and love and God. It felt right to guide her. She felt right in their lives. 

To be unable to talk now, it felt more odd than usual. He couldn’t even communicate to Nile, not like he could with Andy and Joe. Or Booker— even he had worked out a certain understanding of Nicky’s complex gestures and minute little expressions. 

It hurt him to know that Nile had to have _everything_ thrown at her so early in their time together. It hurt him to know he couldn’t be there for her right now. 

_I’m sorry I scared you._

She just put her other hand on top of his, sandwiching them together and holding tight. She smiled at him. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” 

He wouldn’t dare call it a lie. He was sure Nile believed it, but it still sat in his chest with all the rest of his weight.

* * *

Back before his first death, in the monastery with the sheer mountainside on one side and the lapping Mediterranean waves on the other, silence wasn’t a mandate as much as a natural side effect of a contemplative life. Nicolo had lived his whole life barely ever hearing human voices that weren’t raised in prayer or murmured in confession. The quiet of his former life still swelled up in him from time to time, sealing his mouth shut and leaving his mind to do the talking. 

Joe still liked to say that it was God telling Nicky when he’d bottled up more than he could hold. Neither of them believed too much anymore, but it still felt good to say it every once in a while. If anything, where God had once anchored his thoughts, his Yusuf stood in His place. He was a solid presence, something to cling to while he was lashed against the rocks in his mind. There was so much to pick over, so much that it overwhelmed all emotions until it was nothing but a roiling vat in his gut. 

It wasn’t God who wrapped Nicky in his warmest scarf, handed him his coat and boots, and ushered him out the door once it all became too much to bear. It was Joe, who gripped his gloved hand in his as they weaved between the trees with slow, measured steps. 

The air was crisp, but not too cold. The midday sun shone down through the leaves in a kaleidoscope of oranges and yellows, dappled with the blue sky. Their steps rustled and crunched in the carpet of fallen leaves under their boots, and the breeze cut through the stewing thoughts in his head. It was just enough that he could breathe again. 

Nicky took in a deep breath, sighing it out with a curl of frost in the air. 

Joe glanced at him with his usual sparkle, chuckling as Nicky pressed closer and wrapped his free hand around his bicep. “Feeling a little better?” 

He smushed his cheek into his Yusuf’s shoulder, somewhere between a nod and a shrug. He got an answering hum and a kiss into his hair. 

Most of their walk passed by in silence. There was a hawk in the near distance that called out occasionally, and squirrels constantly scrambled by in their annual panic. Their tails had gotten bushy and thick as the autumn wore on, and Nicky couldn’t remember where he’d read it, but he knew that was an omen for a long, cold winter. 

He held Joe a little tighter as they walked in step, and wondered when their last white Christmas had been. They might not celebrate it in any particularly recognizable or modern way, but Joe loved the snow. It sure looked beautiful. 

He was still floating somewhere between snow drifts and warm hearths when Joe stopped walking. 

The clearing was familiar— fallen logs laid clumsily around a stone circle, grown over with moss as if they’d been there for a couple generations. The ashes of the samples that had been stolen from them were still there, indistinguishable from the blackened embers of yesterday’s fire. But he knew they were there. It wasn’t as if, now that they couldn’t be used against them anymore, they were less _existent._

Joe was studying him, holding his hand from a slight distance, stepped back as if he might erupt into words or fall to his knees in tears. There was a prickle of irritation bubbling in his gut, but he couldn’t voice it. He could only pull his hand away from his lax grip, gesture sharply around them and furrow his brow. 

_Well?_ He said as best he could. 

Joe at least had the decency to look sheepish. “Nicky— I’m not gonna make you do anything you don’t want to. I can do it, and we can keep walking, but I thought it might help.” He had his hands up in a placating type of surrender, “We’ve gotta clear up all evidence of the fire, and I volunteered us. Watching it burn helped me heal, Babe. Maybe…” 

_Maybe letting it go could help you._ He trailed off, but the sentiment was clear in the rueful edge of his smile and the hope in his eyes. Nicky tried to stay mad, but he hadn’t been able to do that in centuries. Not with Joe. 

His jaw worked, but Joe knew he was winning. He gathered up Nicky’s hands in his and held them to his chest, searching his eyes with those big, earnest brown ones. 

“Nicolo, you know this isn’t about getting you to talk.” It wasn’t a question, because it didn’t have to be. Nicky nodded. It made his Yusuf smile, and he could feel his resolve melting like snow in spring sunlight. “All I want is for you to sleep a little easier. Alright?” 

What harm could it do? It would be nothing compared to the disappointment on his love’s beautiful face if he said no. 

He nodded. 

Joe kissed him, his cold nose bumping Nicky’s in the rush to show his gratitude, his knitted gloves cupping his cheeks. 

There was something truly miraculous about his Yusuf, Nicky mused. Something poetic down to his core— after all these months of strife and recovery and tears, what he needed was to see the samples destroyed in order to feel free. Joe watched the symbol of his pain reduced to ash, and the experience was destroyed too. 

Nicky knew it wasn’t that easy. He was oversimplifying it, far more than Joe deserved. 

He was sure he’d still have hard days. Since that first moment when he threw himself into Nicky’s arms in the Whitby safehouse, he had lost count of how many times Joe had cried. They both had. In those first few weeks, Joe was the one waking up in a terror. He would push up Nicky’s shirt to inspect the skin of his chest, so often that Nicky stopped wearing shirts to bed. He would talk through long chains of events, his breaths heaving and his eyes swimming, looking to Nicky just to ground him in reality. Just to hold space, and bear witness to the way he filtered through his thoughts. 

And _that_ was the thing. The thing that was different between them was that Joe’s brain didn’t bury anything. At least, not in the way Nicky’s did. His mind was a never-ending tangle of tangential thoughts and processes— things that had to be unwoven. There were particularly stubborn knots and threads that twined their way through issue after issue. Joe would pluck at the strings, unraveling them painstakingly, talking through each one as they came. 

Nicky could, and would always, listen. They would build and break like waves, as regular as a tide. Joe released those feelings one at a time, cresting and falling so effortlessly, he even made poetry of tears. 

Nicky didn’t let his thoughts connect or tangle. He was a sniper— he kept a level head. It was the most important part of the waiting, the focus he needed to have. He was used to intent focus, to single-minded dedication. It was as old as the daily offices, going from prayer to mass to prayer again. He cleared his mind and embraced a singular meditation, whether on God or on a target. 

He packed away all other thoughts into their own little boxes. And sometimes, maybe, he forgot to take them back out again. 

Sometimes, he wasn’t quite sure, though. Was he just locking things away in their proper compartments, or was he planting seeds in his mind? Some things grew roots in his head, too deep to ever get to the core of them. He held grudges, he dug in against the pull of time. There was a dark forest in his mind, and every once in a while, a tree fell. It ended up in nightmares, or muteness, or just hollow depression that gnawed him to a pulp— but even when it was all over, the roots were still there. Too deep to dig out. 

The sudden swoop of hopelessness in his gut settled in him, weighing him down. He was exhausted, all the rest he hadn’t gotten finally catching up to him. He held the dustpan as Joe swept up the remains of their torture from the little stone firepit. He carried that dustpan with him the few scant steps from the mossy logs to the stream cutting through the clearing. 

He cast a quick glance over to Joe, holding the dustpan out over the rush of the water. He just squeezed Nicky’s hand in his, rubbing his thumb over the top of his glove. He smiled, and Nicky managed a flicker of his own lips in answer. 

Then he dumped the ashes into the stream, tapping the last of it out on a stone into the current. 

It felt the same. It clenched around his chest like an iron fist, to still feel the bone-deep horror of holding Joe’s corpse in his arms. The shaken sensation of knowing Booker pulled the trigger, and the chilling words that played over and over in his head: _what would you know of all these years alone?_

He squeezed Joe’s hand back, feeling weak. 

“Ready to head back?” 

He nodded woodenly, letting Yusuf pull him back up, holding him close under his arm when he listed into him. He thought he’d maybe heard quiet cooing, Joe muttering sweet nothings into his hair, but he couldn’t be sure. Not with that damn question echoing in his head, unable to speak anything out loud. 

The house was warm compared to the brisk wind that had picked up outside, and Nicky could feel his cheeks and nose going pink at the change in temperature. Joe was rosy colored, too, and all too happy to take off his gloves and shed his coat. The sight of him served to help thaw a little of the ice in Nicky’s chest. 

Joe looked a little defeated. He didn’t have to say a thing in order for Nicky to know what he was thinking— that he hadn’t helped, that maybe he made things worse, that he had been stupid to try… Joe was making all new knots in his head, thinking too hard and whirling himself in circles. 

He couldn’t tell him to stop. He couldn’t say that he was okay, that nothing was his fault. He didn’t have the words. Nicky just lifted his hand and pushed his fingers into his Yusuf’s curls, making him meet his gaze. 

The tension in Joe’s spine loosened a little, and Nicky smiled. 

He picked a yellow leaf out of his love’s hair, and made him chuckle. A little of his sparkle twinkled back into his brown eyes, and Nicky sighed in relief. 

It was all that needed to be said. 


End file.
